


White Shores

by suitesamba



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, M/M, Recovery, Snarry-A-Thon18, Tolkien-inspired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-27
Updated: 2018-04-27
Packaged: 2019-04-28 14:50:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14451591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suitesamba/pseuds/suitesamba
Summary: Harry and Severus, damaged by the evil that has consumed most of their lives, find comfort only in each other after the War.





	White Shores

**Author's Note:**

> For Badgerlady, who always appreciates a laugh, but who likes angst more.
> 
> Prompt: This quote from _The Return of the King_ (J.R.R. Tolkien): “And the ship went out into the High Sea and passed on into the West, until at last on a night of rain Frodo smelled a sweet fragrance in the air and heard the sound of singing that came over the water. And then it seemed to him as in his dream in the house of Bombadil, the grey rain-curtain turned all to silver glass and was rolled back, and he beheld white shores and beyond them a far green country under a swift sunrise.”

He looks back on that time, to those early days of peace and plenty, with a weary nostalgia. He remembers the tangled mix of sinking grief and heart-splitting joy, euphoria blossoming with radiant sunrise and seeping away at sunset, furling tightly like a bud, sinking down into skin and sinew to cower in darkness when daylight dimmed.

He remembers shadows walking the grounds of Hogwarts, unnamed ghosts of unnamed creatures, counted as friends, counted as lost, counted as heroes all. Passing time has weathered the edges of darkness, but the dead are still formless, Fred’s laugh a memory too fragile to summon, and he can barely recall Dumbledore’s thin voice, or the smoky smell of Sirius’ jacket when he hugged him close. 

Others wept, recovered, moved on. Celebrated new life, new loves. Built the tomorrows they were promised, the tomorrows he, Harry, delivered to them on that fateful day in May when love vanquished darkness and Voldemort’s withered shell fell heavily to the floor, never again to rise.

But for himself, too long a vessel for that splintered soul, there seems no salvation. He finds solace only in those more damaged than he. He gravitates to the downtrodden, the cursed, the broken. Mired in their own pain, they want nothing from him. He goes through the motions, fork to mouth, quill to parchment, boot to pavement. He is an observer, a voyeur, vicariously feeding on the visceral relief of a Wizarding world lifted from despair.

Odd that it is in Snape’s presence, and Snape’s presence only, that he feels at peace.

They are Dumbledore’s men, face to face on balanced scales. Lives hijacked, love unrequited, childhoods stolen. Marked by sin then banished to hell, they emerge, broken but breathing, on the other side. They are lost in the glorious after – after the war, after Voldemort, after the day after tomorrow, after the first day of the rest of their lives.

oooOOOOooo

Three years after, three years, two months and six days after the corpse of Tom Riddle toppled to the floor of the Great Hall, a hollow oak felled by woodsman’s axe, the phoenix Fawkes appears at Spinner’s End.

They’ve been arguing. Severus is tired – tired of the charade, tired of _trying_ , tired of the world assuming he is unburdened now, free to resume his life interrupted. The Dark Lord’s brand is gone from his body, but fear remains, and anger, and a lasting sadness that cannot be mitigated even with the promise of new life, of new beginnings in this old world.

Nothing cures it. Nothing removes it. It is assuaged only while Harry sits with him in the tiny garden, spoons with him in his narrow bed, or lies beside him in a forest clearing, counting the stars in the heavens, the birds in the sky, distracting him with kisses when the clouds roll in, shadowy Dementors chasing away the blue.

Fawkes returns on an unremarkable day, a Saturday afternoon while Severus naps on the sofa and Harry scrubs neglected cauldrons in the basement laboratory, a depressing job in the best of times, today a reminder of Severus’ ceaseless slide into catatonic melancholy. He hears the heart-warming trill of the phoenix as he examines the remains of a Dreamless Sleep potion in a pewter cauldron, half inclined to drink the sludge and hope for the best, and his right hand lifts to his forehead, guided by a near-forgotten puppeteer, as his scar tingles pleasantly.

The worried frown on his face fades into something softer, more peaceful, a remembered ghost of a smile from long ago. Tension eases, bleeding out into the stale cellar air, and he moves toward the stairs, following the phoenix song.

He finds Severus on the sofa still, curled on his side, hand outstretched to rest on crimson feathers. His dark eyes shine in the mottled sunlight bleeding through the curtains. He looks a different man, a dozen years younger, and he speaks as Harry approaches, his voice sandpaper rough, but touched with an unfamiliar ease that makes Harry pause with hand outstretched as fingers graze the beautiful plumage.

“What was it Albus said when the phoenix arrived at the most opportune moment?”

Harry’s hand resumes its motion, strokes softly down the bird’s back. He is transported to Dumbledore’s office, to days before he understood his task, to sadnesses cured by sherbet lemons and points to Gryffindor and holidays at the Burrow. “You know as well as I do,” he answers. “He said it was my loyalty to him – to Dumbledore – that brought Fawkes to me when I most needed help.”

Severus uncurls, sitting up on the sofa and straightening his back, stretching as if waking at last from a long and troubled sleep. Fawkes spreads his wings and ruffles his feathers, then draws them in again as Severus speaks.

“I thought it hogwash when he made the promise,” he muses. “Albus never despaired, not even when the Dark Lord was knocking at his door. He promised there would be a place for me when it was over – a place without shadows. A place without the stain of _him_. Should I _need_ it. Should I want it. _When_ I wanted it. I think – I _believe_ \- that it is time.”

Harry does not move. He cannot deny the presence of Fawkes. The miracle of it. Nor does he deny that Dumbledore, of all men, of all wizards, can reach out from the grave and spin magic with his withered hands. 

“Where?” Harry’s voice shakes. 

Severus shakes his head, eyes on Fawkes. “Away,” he says. He glances over at Harry then, and his expression changes. His eyes soften. “Someplace real,” he says. “A place Albus knew, I suspect. A place in this world, but not of it.” And perhaps because he knows Harry so well, or perhaps because Harry makes no attempt to shield his mind, he smiles and adds. “Harry, if I wanted to die, I have at my disposal a hundred different ways to do so.”

Harry’s face shows his relief. “So – this place.” He glances at Fawkes and the bird dips his head to preen a feather. “Fawkes can take me, too? Dumbledore never said – never promised ….”

“Phoenixes can bear great weight,” Severus reminds him. He beckons, and Harry sits beside him, and Severus takes his hand. “I suspect there is no coming back, Harry,” he says, rubbing his thumb across Harry’s hand. “My wounds are too deep – I lived with the evil too long. Every day is a struggle – within me, and with the world at large that has forgiven me but cannot forget what I have done. But you are young still, with a world of possibilities before you.”

“No.” Harry’s free hand fists into Severus’ robes. “No. I’m ready too. Don’t leave me, Severus. Don’t….” Panic rises. His voice falters.

Severus’ fingers tilt his chin upward, and there is something – something in his eyes Harry has never before seen. 

“You freed the world from Voldemort, Harry, and the world has been rejoicing ever since while you’ve drifted in the shadows. The darkness in me – the evil in the mark, in my soul – pulls you. Despair welcomes despair. We feed on each other, Harry. It is time for me to go.”

“You don’t understand – ”

“I do understand.” Severus’ fingers grip his chin. There is strength in them yet, despite the atrophy of these last years. “I understand that you cannot live – really live – in this world while I am here. I understand that I am being given a chance, but that it comes with a price. And I understand – I understand that I chose my path through this life, I chose the evil that has consumed me, and you – you, Harry, did not.”

They stare at each other – Severus defiant, Harry defeated. Severus’ fingers fall from Harry’s chin, move to press palm against chest, and he kisses Harry. He has never kissed Harry like this before. Their kisses are rough and consuming, filled with the vigor and passion they cannot muster with the rest of the world. The kisses of secret lovers, in stolen moments, in private sanctuaries. Kisses to claim, touches to burn, wringing pleasure from bone-weary bodies, delivering, but briefly, the restful haze of post-coital bliss. Temporary but invigorating. Fuel for the wasting days and sleepless nights alone.

Severus’ lips claim Harry’s without rancor, without lust, without the searing burn of dark desire. They speak a new language – of promise, of love – and taste of Phoenix fire, of rebirth, of goodbye.

“Forget me,” Severus says, stepping away. “Look to the east – to the new day.”

He reaches toward the phoenix and, as his fingers catch the tail feathers, and the great bird spreads his glorious wings, Harry lunges forward, and his fingers close around Severus’ wrist as the bird takes flight.

ooOOOoo

Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, Auror and Unspeakable, find Severus’ home, and Harry’s safe haven, with the long-forgotten putter-outer. It shouldn’t have worked – Hermione tries to explain this to Ron – but he is more interested in searching for Harry than discussing magical theory.

The air is stale but there is no stench of death. Harry’s cloak is draped over a worn wingback chair, beside Severus’ dark blue bathrobe. The tea in the mugs on the table is long cold, and the home has an air of neglect, but not of decay. Ron leaves to check the bedrooms and the basement, while Hermione moves about the kitchen, studying the layout, the details of a sparse and regimented life, looking for tells, hoping for answers. She walks into the sitting room, and something catches her eye.

“Ron,” she calls softly. Ron has finished searching the cellar and has gone on to the bedrooms. She sinks onto the sofa and stares at the floor between her feet. “Come in here.”

He comes at once, standing across the room, broad shoulders filling the narrow corridor. She holds out the feather in her hands, the feather she’s lifted from the floor, crimson and gold and so achingly familiar, and they stare at it together. Hermione’s hand trembles as she lifts the feather to her face, brushing it against her cheek in wonder. The scar on her cheek, thin and silver as the edge of a knife, fades away, an unwitting gift from a friend from the other side.

“Fawkes,” breathes Ron, and there is, in his voice, both relief and grief. “They could be anywhere in the world now.”

“But they’re alright,” Hermione said. Her eyes glisten with tears as she smooths the feather between her fingers. “They’re alright.”

**Author's Note:**

>  _“We set out to save the Shire, Sam. And it has been saved. But not for me.”_  
>  (Frodo to Sam at the Grey Havens in Peter Jackson’s “Return of the King”)
> 
> Please leave a comment here or at [Livejournal](https://snape-potter.livejournal.com/3813596.html), [Insanejournal](http://asylums.insanejournal.com/snape_potter/1748881.html), or [Dreamwidth](https://snape-potter.dreamwidth.org/1061734.html).


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